


Threefold Applications of Doubt

by mumblefox



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblefox/pseuds/mumblefox
Summary: Following the events of Into Darkness, Kirk awakens to find Starfleet at war with itself. The Marcus incident has frightened the people of Earth, and there are increasingly large factions calling for the militarization of Starfleet to protect the planet. Without options, knowing it will turn them into villains, the Enterprise crew commit an act of war in order to prevent a larger one. Then they just have to hold on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So Beyond got me all fired up about how bad Into Darkness was and I was like hey let's fix that piping hot mess, so I made this thing. It takes place between the two movies and listen I'd like to be the kind of person who knows what they're doing but I have no idea if this is queerplatonic BFF K/S or if it's pre-relationship K/S so?????? Honestly we're all gonna find that one out together. Definitely not gonna be bangin' tho. okay good talk have fun

**Prologue**

 

In the days following the destruction of Vulcan, Spock had found a new respect for the solace of logic. He had, after all, been able to command a starship following grievous personal and cultural losses, and maintain control of a shell-shocked crew. He had followed procedure; he had been careful.

He did not have a need to account for James Kirk. It had been impossible for him to get back onto the ship. But James Kirk had done it anyway, had just walked back onto the bridge having disproven an accepted law of interstellar physics, and that, really, had been the end of Spock’s unshakable faith in logic. Spock had demanded an explanation, and Kirk had refused to answer as though the impossible was somehow inconsequential to him – as though what he _must_ do was more important than what he logically _could_ do, and that the universe would simply sweep back the curtain and step aside for him.

It was around this time, not coincidentally, that Spock had violently admitted to being quite furious.

Later, he would have time to realize that every time his fist connected with Kirk’s face, the searing imprint of emotion that crackled up his arm was not anger, but guilt: a deep and ugly self-loathing that consumed everything else, and that vanished against the towering presence of Spock’s own rage.

Everything that followed was now a matter of public record – the advent of Captain James Tiberius Kirk and the destruction of Nero, the horrific first voyage of the Enterprise. And after, having returned to a Starfleet gutted and bereft and reeling from losses they still struggled to fully comprehend, no one had expected Spock to do anything but grieve.

And he had. In private, in meditation, in every way he knew how to lock away what he could and weather what he could not. In that time, he had spent a great deal of time considering that he was now living the worst days of his life. There was no possibility for greater loss. He could not be hurt this badly again.

He had, in many ways, been correct.

The death of James Kirk had not wounded him as losing his planet had. This time, he had not watched a parent vanish in front of him. And yet the loss of Kirk was not one he knew how to deal with. This time, he was not given time to grieve. He had the Enterprise to think of, and her crew, and the cleanup of the warship Khan had crashed into San Francisco. There were the thousands of other casualties to consider. There were letters to write on behalf of Captain Kirk to the families of the crew members they had lost on the way.

There was Jim, lying in Starfleet Medical, with a pulse so weak a slamming door could send him into cardiac arrest, and the thin line of Doctor McCoy’s mouth as he studied charts for an answer that just wasn’t there.

The result was that, for the first few days of Kirk’s ongoing convalescence, Spock had spent an inordinate amount of time at the Captain’s bedside, watching machines breathe for him and ignoring McCoy’s orders that he leave and get some sleep. Distantly, he had understood that such nagging was how the doctor expressed concern. Without Jim, he was short-tempered and afraid, and it was wearing him thin. His admonishments about lack of sleep would be more accurately directed at himself, and Spock decided that he owed the doctor whatever patience he could extend, and said nothing when McCoy’s nagging turned sour.

But sometimes, in the sunlight, Kirk’s stillness was unbearable. It was incorrect. The Captain that Spock had followed onto Nero’s ship was never still, never passive. He had turned a ship of terrified cadets into the most formidable and capable crew Starfleet had ever produced, and he’d done it with the mild concussion and cracked ribs that Spock himself had given him. He had, without any of them noticing, become the star they set their courses by. He had always, always been brilliant.

Sometimes, Spock considered reaching for him – just to brush up against that brilliance one more time, just to call for him, to summon him back to the family he had saved, that he was leaving behind. Whenever that urge struck him, Spock got up and left. He never once even brushed Jim’s blankets. He could not take the chance. He could not bear the thought of reaching out and finding only darkness.

Still, he always came back. He had begun to understand that he always would. There was no logic in it, and Spock found that for the first time in his life, he did not much care.

 

 

 

* * *

**One**

 

Five days after the crash of the Vengeance, Spock sits in Kirk’s room, a tray on wheels serving as a writing desk and a stack of completed letters in unsealed envelopes at his left elbow. A personnel file is open on the PADD that he has propped against the edge of Kirk’s bed, nothing more than a picture and a series of statistics: lieutenant Kelly Traynor, human, 23, Engineering (specialization in nacelle diagnostics and repair), killed in action while serving aboard the starship USS Enterprise. In precise handwriting, Spock expresses gratitude for her service and regret for her loss, knowing that her family will be comforted by neither. He signs the letter as he has signed all the others: with his own name, but on behalf of Captain James T. Kirk, and adds it to the pile on his left. Then he reaches for another page, blank but for the Starfleet Insignia in the top corner, and opens a new personnel file, and begins to write again.

The letters are a welcome, if morbid, distraction. He had been summoned to deliver his official report of the incident to the Admiralty Board that morning, and the hearing had lasted well over two hours. By the end, they had made it very clear that Khan is classified information and that Spock is to refuse to comment on the incident. He is expected to pass that instruction along to the crew of the Enterprise and see that it is followed. None of that is troubling; he had determined that particular outcome to be the most likely two days ago. Instead, what drove him to seek solitude was the fact that he had not been entirely honest with them. To say that Kirk is dying was not a lie, not exactly. His chances of waking are slim. It was, however, dishonest to neglect to mention that Kirk had fully died, and is now alive again. The omission is not technically a lie, but it had left him disquieted all the same.

It is peaceful here. It is quiet, and the letters come easier with Kirk beside him, even asleep. The soft footsteps of the attending nurses who pass by mix easily with the electrical hum of the life support machines. It is solemn enough, as background noise goes, for what he has to do.

He signs off on a letter for James no’Tuko, a fellow science officer; he finishes and neatly folds one for Avery Summers, a dietician in their late fifties who had refused retirement; he begins a new one for Io Aianu, whose expression in her enlistment image displays a fierce pride that reminds him instantly of Uhura. She had been among the youngest, just an ensign, out of the academy for less than a year. She had specialized in exobiology. And, like all the others relegated to the letters he has written, she had died.

As he writes out his condolences to her family, he is deeply grateful for the Vulcan heritage that keeps his hand from shaking. He can feel the energy of the past two days moving under his skin like a fog behind thick glass. Ensign Aianu’s letter, when he is finished signing it, looks to be almost twelve percent longer than the others. Extra words are all he can offer. It is not enough, but it is all he has to give.

He tucks her letter into its envelope and neatly writes her name on the front. Footsteps are approaching, a gait he recognizes. Spock opens a new personnel file just as Doctor McCoy opens up the door. The grumbling starts immediately.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, unloading his armful of supplies. “Don’t you have a desk you could be doing your paperwork at?”

Spock continues to work calmly on the newest letter. “Administrative duties are not confined to a specific location, Doctor.”

“So Vulcans are bad at lying _and_ at taking a hint. You learn something new every day.” Spock glances up briefly as McCoy moves to Kirk’s side, hooking up a vial to a hollow needle for a blood sample. The doctor’s hands are sure and steady, and while his manner is brusque, his hands – with Jim, at least – are always gentle.

Spock thinks of his own hands, clasped tightly behind his back at the debriefing. He thinks of his own hands pressed up against the glass, and Jim’s fingers sliding across to form the ta’al.

McCoy trades out the first vial for another, and Spock realizes he had been staring, lost in memory. “So,” the doctor says, not looking away from his task. “The letters, huh?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Someone must.” For the first time since he had sat down with him, Spock looks up at Kirk. There is no change; the machines would have alerted them if there were. His eyes are still closed, and the faint bruising surrounding them has not dissipated. Not for the first time, Spock is tangentially reminded of the life cycles of stars.

The second vial is replaced by a third. “Better you, anyway. Jim never did handle those well.” McCoy pauses a moment as he removes the filled vial and the needle, pressing a wad of cotton gauze to the puncture. “I helped him through the first batch, after Nero. Too emotional, this kid. Cares too much. Spent the first night just reading all their files, learning their names. Didn’t get any work done, either, just drank like a sponge and passed out on my couch.”

“I am surprised that duty fell to Kirk,” Spock says. “He had not yet been officially appointed to the Enterprise’s captaincy. Was Admiral Pike unable to complete them, or unwilling?”

“Neither.” McCoy still holds the cotton gauze on the inside of Kirk’s arm, first two fingers pressing firmly and thumb hooked underneath. With his other hand, he presses his fingers to the pulse in Kirk’s neck. Spock waits while the doctor stares at his watch, counting heartbeats. When he is satisfied that the machine monitoring his heart is still accurate, he continues. “Jim asked. Christopher said no at first – they’d been his crew, his friends – but he understood why Jim wanted to do it. He’d lost his dad to the Nerada, and then hundreds of classmates. None of it was his fault, but the letters helped him square with it. Actually, I think it’s what proved to them that he was ready to make captain.”

Spock straightens the already neat pile of letters. If Kirk had been so affected by losses that were never his fault, then these would be far harder for him. “He will want to write some of these himself, then, when he awakens,” Spock says slowly. “I will put several aside for him, unless you object, Doctor.”

McCoy huffs. “Of course I object. Shouldn’t be taking on that kind of strain, but he’d never forgive either of us if we didn’t let him.”

“We are in agreement, then.”

“Ain’t that a first.” McCoy reaches for a strip of tape and secures the cotton ball to Kirk’s arm, then lets him go to begin gathering his tools.

Spock ignores the incorrect figure of speech: he and the doctor have been in agreement on several topics over the course of their acquaintance, most of them concerning James Kirk. “I will attempt to minimize the emotional impact by choosing appropriate personnel files for him to look over.”

The doctor is quiet momentarily, busying himself with storing the vials of Kirk’s blood correctly. Then he sighs. “I forget you’re half human sometimes. Capital offense as the ship’s doctor, but I do.” He nods his head at the letters. “How many do you have left?”

The doctor’s tone had been apologetic, but bringing attention to his hybrid heritage is an illogical way of not causing offense. “One hundred and forty-three,” Spock says, unable to decide what sort of response to issue beyond an answer to the question.

One corner of McCoy’s mouth quirks downward. “I’ll bring you some coffee.”

“I do not require any caffeine, Doctor.”

“Yeah, well I’m gonna bring you some anyway.” McCoy heads for the door, stomping a little more than is necessary. “Would a simple ‘thank you’ have been so damn hard?”

Spock does not dignify that with a response, but when McCoy returns a short time later and hands him a steaming hot cup of the beverage, Spock accepts it silently and goes back to writing.

 

* * *

 

It takes Spock 4.76 hours to complete the remainder of the letters, setting twenty-three aside for Kirk to complete. The crew members he selected were drawn from the lowest ranks, since he had determined that, if the captain were to ask why those had been left unfinished, Spock could reasonably claim that he had organized the files from highest to lowest rank. Of course, it was also less likely that the captain would know lower-ranking members personally, and their letters would therefore be easier to manage than those of acquaintances.  It would have to be enough.

Outside the hospital, it is loud. Not with city sounds, nor with vehicles and the clattering hum of millions of feet, but with news vids. They play in the lobby of the hospital as Spock makes his way back into the world, but here they are muted; the strained faces of reporters and interviewees are paired with scrolling text. Beyond the pneumatic glass doors, recaps and talk show speculation are far more common, and they play on handhelds, a flicker of competing voices as the crowds surge past. Spock takes a moment to listen as he steps out into the sun, opting to walk instead of summon a shuttle.

“-fleet maintains that the repairs to the ship are critical, and best assisted by the crew that knows her best. Her Captain, James Kirk, remains in critical-”

“-no crew having survived the wreck of the Dreadnought-class ship, there is no one to answer the charges of treason which led to Admiral Marc-”

“-salvaged parts indicate that the ship carried advanced military technology and arma-”

“-remains mysterious-“

Screens set in transit stops, which usually display information on arrival and departure times, have been tuned to the news for more than a week. At the stop nearest the hospital, a young cadet sits on the bench, her face blank. She stares out into the world without seeing anything, and a girl in civilian clothes sits next to her, holding her hand. Spock keeps walking. He doesn’t glance over as he goes past, doesn’t slow down, and pretends not to see the way the second girl looks up at him hopefully, as though his crisp uniform and commander’s badges mean that help has finally arrived. The news vid playing in the transit shelter depicts rescue efforts, people being hauled out of the rubble. There is nothing on it that will help the cadet with the thousand-yard stare. Spock has seen that look enough in the past years to know what it means.

Once the shock of the impact had worn off, search and rescue teams had descended upon San Francisco. Starfleet closed temporarily, and volunteers from every department were dispatched to help resolve the emergency any way they could: staffing medical aid stations, shoring up structural collapses, assisting in the removal of debris, searching for survivors. Dozens of cadets without enough applicable skills were used as runners. In the first few days after the disaster, they delivered supplies to hard-to-access areas, relayed messages, and raced between medical stations with lists of patient names to help reunite hundreds of survivors with their loved ones. Dozens more crawled into gaps in the wreckage to deliver food and water to those trapped below.

However, the crew of the Enterprise had not been allowed to aid in the rescue efforts. The ship had been able to return to the space dock under its own power, and was going to be there for a long while. The damage caused by their fight with Khan had been extensive, and repairs would be best undertaken with the assistance of the crew that knows her best – that is the official reason. All of them know that they are being kept from the possibility of divulging information about their last mission, and many of the crew are grateful for it.

That information had come to Spock through Uhura. She had remained aboard the Enterprise when administrative duties called him down to Earth, and she has remained there, ensconced in her communications array, snarling at any techs who try to initiate repairs or even diagnostics on her station. She passes two information packets to Spock over a secure channel every evening: one with reports on the ship and crew, details of the repairs and upgrades being made, and any requisitions or other paperwork that need his attention. The other has press dockets, updates on Klingon communiqués, vids that summarize news reports from all over the planet, and an updated timeline of public unrest, graphed on a scale that is sliding steadily into the red. She compiles the reports because Spock does not have time to hear everything, and because she loves to hear everything, but more than either of those reasons – because he knows her well, and they both know their captain even better – he knows that she is preparing a summary of what they are facing for Jim to see when he awakens.

Sulu had remained as well, and is responsible for maintaining control of the crew, keeping them organized and focused, and ensuring they are happy. Uhura had mentioned in one of her reports that many of the crew who were showing signs of acute stress had been granted unofficial shore leave, which Spock understood to mean that they had been smuggled safely off the ship and into recovery facilities, or to their homes. It was, apparently, difficult to keep track of the crew with so many coming and going as repairs dictated. Spock had not asked for details. He was not prepared to evade questions about it if confronted.

In that report, Uhura had also made it clear that it was impossible to misplace senior members of the crew, and that she was concerned about Chekov’s well-being. He had repaired the navigation systems himself, but the damage was minor and he was quickly left without a task to distract him. Like everyone else, he was in shock over the destruction of the city, but he mourned the damage to the ship and the loss of Kirk more acutely than anyone had expected. Montgomery Scott had taken him down to engineering to assist with some of his ‘less official upgrades’, and he was occupied there, but no less distressed. Spock had formally requested leave for Chekov after reading her report, but it was denied. Resources were too scarce, they said. The rescue efforts had to come first. Instead, he asked Uhura to do what she thought best; she quietly relocated some support staff down into engineering as extra labourers, all of them cadets that Chekov had gone through the Academy with. Among them was a psychological support counsellor from medical who owed Uhura a favour, and she agreed to keep an extra eye on him. It would have to be enough for now, Uhura had said, and neither of them acknowledged the eventuality they hoped for: that Kirk would wake up, that they could pull their family back together around him instead of trying to stretch to cover the gap he’d left.

They had agreed to be silent about Kirk’s possible recovery. The chances of McCoy’s desperate gambit succeeding are synonymous with zero: he is trying to cure death, and only the unknown variable of Khan’s blood gives the attempt any merit. To give the crew false hope would be unacceptable, especially when so many of them have already lost so much. It was still necessary to forestall the flurry of activity that would follow the death of such a respected captain, and so they were forced to explain that Kirk had not died, not yet. Instead, the three of them would only say that Kirk had been exposed to severe radiation and was dying, in peace and comfort and privacy, and that any change would be reported to Starfleet command.

Despite the ceaseless barrage of information surrounding the incident, and the rampant speculation and rumour-mongering, Spock has yet to see Khan’s name appear. It is a small grace, Spock thought, that his particular brand of terrorism wouldn’t be rewarded with any amount of recognition. Very few people, relatively speaking, ever knew that he had existed. That number had dropped throughout the ship battle, and Starfleet had expended a lot of effort in making sure that he stayed buried in obscurity. Officially, the former Admiral Marcus – posthumously stripped of his rank, a grave punishment – was blamed for the destruction. The story was that he misused Starfleet funding to create advanced weaponry, which then became too unstable to control. The Enterprise had been engaged to rescue the crew and minimize the collateral damage, but had no hope of stopping the ship from crashing.

That was supposed to have been the end. Cleanup was underway, and the public had their explanation, and there should have been no more to say. The problem was that not everyone agreed Marcus was wrong.

Spock understood, of course. In many ways, fear was the more sensible reaction to a massive starship plowing through the heart of one of Earth’s most important cities. No matter what Starfleet said about it, there were many who saw the crash as an attack – an accurate assessment, but one that misunderstood the motivation behind it – and wondered how it could be prevented from happening again.

Khan had attacked Starfleet. The people of the Earth were told it was an accident, but all they saw was an attack on the planet.

The matter was further compounded by the Klingons, who had reacted exactly as one might expect to the massacre of their people on their own home planet. They had no evidence that the incident was in any way related to the Federation, but they knew the weaponry used did not belong to them. It was enough – almost enough, so very nearly enough – to start a war.

Given those realities, it was not surprising to Spock that the populace had begun to call for armament. Khan’s weapons would be a powerful deterrent to war, argue many, and could serve to protect the planet against physical threats such as the one posed by Khan’s ship. Their detractors look to military history and theory, both of which make it clear that acquiring large amounts of offensive weapons is an indicator of future aggression, and such action often provokes attacks that might not otherwise have been necessary.

Both sides, unfortunately, make valid points. It has resulted, so far, in a stalemate that grows more fractious by the hour.

Publicly, Spock has declined to comment on the situation. Starfleet had ordered him to stay quiet for now, but as the ranking officer of the Starfleet ship that had been directly involved in bringing down Marcus’ ship, he receives many such requests for input. Every time he declines, he wonders what Kirk would have done in his place: if he would follow orders, or if he would speak out anyway.

Spock has a strong sense that it would be the latter. Inaction has never been Kirk’s way.

 

* * *

 

It is seventeen days since Kirk’s official death. The sky is clear and blue and the sun streams in through the generous windows in Kirk’s private room. Spock’s chair is close enough to the bed that one knee rests against the bed’s supports, and he is using this time to complete paperwork concerning the Enterprise’s repairs. He still signs the forms as the ship’s Commander, and not as acting captain.

There is a rustling in the doorway, and Spock glances up from his PADD to see McCoy scowling at him. He does not move to get up, or even turn off his screen. The doctor’s eyes narrow and he storms over.

“Get out, dammit, I’ve had enough.”

They had had similar conversations before. Spock allows one eyebrow to crawl towards his hairline, and says nothing else.

“Nice try. I’m serious about this, Spock. Go bother Uhura. Go oversee repairs. Go sleep, or drink, or get laid, or whatever it is you need to do. You can’t stay here forever.”

“When the Captain awakens, I will of course resume - ”

“You and I both know it’s not a matter of when, it’s a matter of if.”

For a long moment, Spock stares down at his PADD without managing to read any of the material it presents. Realizing this, he turns off the screen and stores the stylus. When he looks up at McCoy, the doctor’s expression has softened. He seems older than he was just a few moments ago. He seems very tired.

“You Vulcans are a desert species. Go get some sun, at least. And when you come back, we need to sit down and talk about the next few days.”

Spock stands, far more abruptly than he’d meant to. “If you need me, Doctor, I have my comm,” he finds himself saying, and then he walks stiffly out of the room. He does not stop walking until he is outside, out in the courtyard they keep for photosynthetic species and for human recovery, where there is less wind and they can monitor carefully for allergens.

He stands in the weak sun of the only home he has left and tries to remember what it feels like to be warm. He remembers the volcano, being on his knees as the molten ground heaved around him, oddly calm. The people of that planet would live, would not be buried under ashen skies that withered the plants they ate. Without the actions of Kirk and his crew, a whole race would have starved to death and been lost forever.

The cause had been sufficient. Even having violated the Prime Directive, he does not regret saving them.

Spock wanders over to an unoccupied bench, but decides that he has been stationary for a long time already. He opts to walk instead. The courtyard is small, and he winds his way through the sunbeams between the ample shade trees absentmindedly, traveling a circuit around the outermost perimeter. Each time he passes it, he refuses to look at the door that would lead him to Kirk’s room.

The Captain had not been eager to defy regulation, even to save an entire species. Spock hypothesizes that it is because he is capable of fully comprehending the cost. If anyone were to be wary of a technologically superior organisation arriving unexpectedly and forever altering the fate of those it touched, it would have to be James Kirk. Additionally, as captain of a starship he feels responsibility very acutely, and would have held back, acquiescing to the advice of his bridge crew.

It was Spock who had pulled him aside. Spock had asked permission to save a species, and Kirk had stood there, light reflecting golden off his command tunic, and his expression was sharp and calculating. Focused. And then he’d exploded into action, never alluding to the fact that it had been Spock’s idea, and it was he who had taken the blame for it.

Spock had said as much in his report. Still, Kirk was the Captain. Kirk had made the final decision.

Such decisions had saved lives before, with Nero, with Khan. Now, after having saved so many, Kirk might yet die for it.

Blame is illogical. Regret is illogical. Both emotions are reflective, only having a bearing on events that have already transpired. Spock knows these things. Despite this, he still finds himself feeling guilt, and has neither the energy nor the motivation to quell it entirely.

His comm chirps, and even though he is alone in the courtyard, Spock briefly closes his eyes. He composes himself, just long enough that it chirps again. When he keys the screen, McCoy’s voice crackles out, shattering the calm that Spock had scraped together.

“Spock. Better get up here.”

He is moving before McCoy has finished talking, PADD tucked against his body as he restrains himself from bolting for the door. There is an unpleasant sensation in his gut akin to nausea, and he knows that McCoy had not heard Montgomery Scott call him down to engineering, had not heard him say almost the exact same words those seventeen days ago.

A coincidence, he thinks. It cannot be anything else. Yet as he takes the stairs two at a time, he thinks _not again_ and tries very hard not to panic.

The door to Jim’s room is standing open. Inside, nothing has changed.

Spock takes a breath, realizing that he has been holding it. Spots swim briefly in front of his eyes. The doctor is leaning over Jim, holding open his eyelids with one hand and passing a flashlight over his pupils with the other. He looks up and grunts a greeting as Spock steps inside, outwardly composed despite the twisting that remains in his gut.

“Good, you’re here,” he says, and Spock lowers his eyebrows by half a degree: a frown. There is genuine relief in McCoy’s voice. His shoulders move more easily than they had a few hours ago. Afraid, Spock allows himself to look back at Jim, but he is still breathing.

“Check the monitors, man. Honestly, do I gotta spell it out for you?” On the wall to Spock’s left, the computers measure heart rate and neural impulses, show blood samples, graph electrical activity, and quantify very nearly everything else. The display currently shows curving lines. The spaces between them are narrower than they have been for the past few weeks; the curves at their apex are sharper. His brain activity has changed.

“Doctor?” Spock says, unable to take his eyes from the way the lines shudder when he speaks – listening.

There is a smile in McCoy’s voice. He sounds very weary, and very pleased. “He’s waking up, Spock. I thought you should be here.”

Spock watches the graphs and hesitates before settling into parade rest. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything more. And less than ten minutes later, Kirk’s eyelids flutter open and McCoy smiles, quickly and privately, as those piercing blue eyes focus on him at last.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says, moving to check Jim’s vitals, and he says it fondly.

 

* * *

 

There are tests to run, questions to be asked. Kirk reclines, propped up by pillows, and bears the doctor’s scrutiny with his usual ill grace.

Spock waits off to the side. He watches the monitors and struggles to keep his expression neutral, to keep his gaze from his captain. It would not be appropriate to stare. The fact is that Kirk has done the impossible again, as though it doesn't matter, as though he had simply found death to be boring and decided to return. Spock cannot quite pretend that his continued presence here is mere curiosity; his blood is thrumming with the words _awake_ and _alive_ and _safe._ He can feel them shiver under his skin.

The sensation is unfamiliar.

Not unwelcome. Not even close.

Before the doctor leaves, he grips Jim’s shoulder once, hard. His jaw moves, slides minutely sideways. Jim reaches up, squeezes his hand back.

After a few seconds of this hard contact, Jim cracks the barest smile, and McCoy finally lets him go.

The doctor leaves. All at once, Spock is alone with Jim.

A sudden uncomfortable realization: the last time they were alone, Kirk had died.

What happened after - the chase, the fight, Uhura saving him as she had done so many times before - is blurred in his memory. None of it feels real. Somehow, only this matters: Kirk dying in front of him, and Kirk waking to find him there still. As though he had always been there, and always would.

Spock pulls a chair over to his bedside as he has so many times before. This time, Kirk watches him in weary silence. Spock has never seen him so tired, and it causes an ache of sympathy to echo in his chest. He doesn't know what Kirk wants him to say, doesn't know what to expect. A greeting is likely, he thinks, or an inquiry about the ship or the crew.

As usual, Kirk surprises him. When he speaks, his mouth stays in a hard line.

“So I guess I missed the funeral, huh?”

Spock tilts his head very slightly. “You are talking about Admiral Pike.”

In answer, Jim sighs. He turns his face towards the window, towards the stars only just visible in the darkening sky.

“Yes. The funeral was delayed by the destruction Khan brought upon the city, but was held three days after your…hospitalisation.”

Kirk laughs quietly. “After my own death, you mean.”

“I did not think it wise to say so.”

“It’s okay,” Jim says, and he looks back at Spock. “It wasn’t so bad, I guess. Hurt like hell, for a while, but you were there for that part. And I was…” His mouth tightens, closes firmly around the words, and then he waves his hand dismissively. The gesture describes an arc that is twenty percent smaller than is usual for Kirk. “Just nothing, after that. Nothing at all. Don’t know what I was expecting. I just hope it was that easy for Christopher.”

Spock remembers Kirk gripping his shoulder as he stood amongst the flames and dust and debris of Pike’s last moments, needing Spock’s support but needing to distance himself, too. He remembers, with sharp clarity, being melded with Pike as he stopped breathing, as his heart kicked in defiance, the swooping sensation of falling as he tipped back from sight and sound for the last time.

“I was with him,” Spock finds himself saying. “He was in pain, but he went quickly. He was annoyed that it was so easy to do. And he was relieved to know that you survived.” There is more he could say, but he doesn't think Kirk would want to hear it just now. Maybe one day, he would be ready to hear the rest: the depth of Pike’s regard for him, a deep, familial, uncomplicated love born of pride and exasperation.

Kirk falls quiet. He turns away again, towards the window, and they sit for a long moment in silence as Spock lets him grieve anew, lets him settle with the enormity of what has happened to him. He watches Kirk’s hands where they are curled tightly around the blankets over his belly and wishes touch was easy for him, wishes he was capable of offering that small, human comfort without it being a trespass.

Instead, he breaks the silence by saying, “Doctor McCoy will not have told the crew that you are awake. He will want you to rest, and not spend your energy on social calls. But I will discreetly inform Uhura and the rest of our bridge crew, if you wish it.”

Kirk smiles, and Spock sees again that he is very tired. “I’ve only been awake a few hours and already you’re provoking Bones again.”

“My authority exceeds his on crew matters, Captain.”

Jim’s smile snaps to full brightness, a smile that pours life back into his pale face, and he reaches out towards Spock. He reaches back, grasping Jim’s covered forearm as Jim grasps his. “You know me too well, Commander.”

Spock nods, and Jim squeezes his arm briefly before letting go. “Sweet dreams,” Kirk says, and Spock returns the sentiment even though the instruction itself is illogical. He turns out the light on his way out of the room, and when he looks back as he closes the door, Jim’s face is already turned back towards the stars.

 

* * *

 

When Spock returns the following afternoon, he brings Uhura with him. McCoy is waiting for them when the lift doors open on Kirk’s floor.

“No, I told you no! Goddammit man,” McCoy says, exasperated but not angry. “You had one job.”

Spock opens his mouth to reply that the doctor’s assertion is incorrect; while he has but one title, the tasks under his purview are numerous. He is, however, cut off by Uhura, whose remarks are preceded by an intense glare.

“Spock told me last night, Leonard, and I have waited until _visiting hours_ to come down here and give you hell for not telling me yourself. Now let me see him.”

McCoy’s grip on his PADD tightens, and he gazes down the hall towards Kirk’s room. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and with a jolt Spock realizes that he knows the emotion that grips the doctor. He is deep within himself, down where fear lives, and loss; he knows the places where the two meet, and how it takes hold of a heart. And perhaps Uhura does not (he hopes she does not) or perhaps she misinterprets his silence.

“What’s happened?” she says softly, and the doctor’s mouth is a hard line, pressed white around the edges.

“Nothing,” McCoy answers, only a fraction too quickly. “Spock knows the room. Just keep it short. I’ve got other business; do _not_ make me come kick you out.”

“Thanks, Leonard,” she says with a grateful smile. His expression softens from ‘impending tension headache’ to one of critical appraisal as he shakes his head and departs to the left, feet silent on the linoleum, and Spock steers Uhura to the right.

“That bad, huh?”

“The Captain does not think so.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “He knows he was dead, right?”

“Yes.” He does not elaborate, guiding her around a corner and indicating a door on the right. “Please go quietly. There is a high probability that he is resting.”

He does not tell her how much time he spent at Kirk’s bedside, watching him sleep as his body struggled to live. He does not say anything about how Kirk’s stillness is deeply unsettling, even now that he has awoken. It reminds him of glass under his fingertips. It reminds him of dust swirling down a sink, washed from his face before he could stop to consider that it was the last time he would touch his home planet.

He cannot bear it, cannot explain how he loathes opening that door on utter silence. So he lets Uhura gingerly turn the door handle and look inside, and her reaction is immediate.

“He’s up,” she says, and her smile seems too large to contain even though it pulls down around the edges, where grief is leaving her.

Kirk is sitting up in bed with a PADD in his lap, and he cranes cautiously to look around Spock, who closes the door softly behind him. “Good,” Kirk says. “Bones would kill me if he caught me with this thing.” Still, he doesn’t bother to hide it before holding his arms out to Uhura, who goes to him and hugs him fiercely.

“Hey, you dumb hick,” she says affectionately, and he smiles with his face pressed to her hair. She makes no move to pull away. His arms tighten around her and she settles into his chest more comfortably, with her ear to his heart.

When they break apart, Spock has brought over the chairs from the wall where McCoy had tucked them out of the way. As they sit, Kirk waves the PADD at them.

“Don’t worry, I swear I’m not working. Old school distractions only.” The screen is lit up with bright, primary colours, and is clearly some sort of touch-controlled game.

“You shouldn’t be doing anything but resting.”

“Ah c’mon, Nyota, I’m bored. Really bored.” He punctuates this with a jaw-cracking yawn. “A guy can only sleep so long. Besides, you’re disobeying doctor’s orders too.”

Uhura laughs and takes his hand, squeezing his fingers tightly. Spock allows himself to glance briefly at their joined hands, glad that she is able to provide this simple, necessary human comfort for Jim. “Well, allowances must be made. It’s not every day your Captain comes back from the dead.”

“I understand you’re partly responsible for that.”

She shakes her head. “Sir, I helped Spock get Khan back to the ship. All the truly heroic work was Leonard’s. I don’t think there’s any other doctor in the galaxy who could have done what he did.”

“Still,” Kirk says, and he looks at her like she’s personally responsible for every beautiful part of the universe. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Just don’t scare me like that again. Next time you try to get yourself killed, you’re going to answer to me.”

Kirk smiles all lopsided and charming, and snaps her a lazy salute. “Yes, ma’am.” There is a tremor in his hand, faint but present. He is fatigued, and he is trying very hard to hide it.

It will only get worse, Spock knows. He has been insulated from the world’s turbulence in this room, but very soon he will walk again, will think to look for news. There is trouble ahead for everyone. He knows Jim well enough to know he will not remain idle once this issue comes to his attention.

He studies the PADD that Kirk has been playing on. Such a cursory inspection offers no way to tell if it is equipped with a server uplink, but Spock is 98.4% certain that it does not. Kirk would have looked for information before he looked for a game; his recreational use of the device likely means that it is little more than data storage. Spock wonders if McCoy knows about this PADD after all. Knowing how quickly the Captain tires of idleness, one might expect him to acquire diversion. It would be prudent to keep a suitable device nearby for just such an occasion.

He cannot fathom such preparedness. Not where it concerns James Kirk.

He is aware, of course, that Leonard McCoy and James Kirk lived together while they were still cadets at the Academy. This is common knowledge. What he does not understand, however, is how their time together affected them both so deeply. He is struck, continually, by the sensation that countless years have unfolded between the two of them without regard for the chronology of their association; that they have shaped each other for centuries; that their friendship spans ages.

It is a foolish notion, and quite clearly incorrect. That does not mean he ceases to feel it.

 

* * *

 

For the first time since the crash of the Vengeance, Uhura’s nightly reports do not contain any information on repairs, politics, or recovery efforts. Instead, she sends him a single word, written by hand in beautiful, flowing Vulcan script: joy.

Shortly thereafter, his terminal lights up with messages, a continuous stream of gentle alert sounds, all of them addressed to Captain James Kirk – whose private line had been disconnected, who is unreachable except by way of his commanding officer – and they are precisely as Uhura had said. Spock sits and watches them roll in on his screen, stunned and shattered by how effusive their love is, their words of celebration and welcome. Some are videos, short clips of the good news spreading across the ship: a series of plainclothes labourers laughing and slapping an overwhelmed Montgomery Scott on the back while he stares at Keenser in hope and disbelief; Chekov, who is smiling and crying at the same time as laughing red shirts crush in around him and he attempts to hug all of them at once; bottles of clear liquor being produced from some hidden pocket of the mess hall as the gathered crowd sings a sea shanty from centuries before, an old song about home ports and clear sailing; a cheer going up on the bridge as a grinning Sulu abdicates the Captain’s chair. There are photographs, too: a fresh gold shirt hastily laid out in the Captain’s quarters captioned ‘ready when you are’; the stars as seen from the ground; a picture of the bridge crew waving from their stations. And there are more – rolling in continuously, dozens upon dozens, full of relief and joy and adoration, a volume of collective emotion that Spock had not expected a single person could inspire.

Among the many messages for Jim, there are some for him as well: invitations to the celebration that is quickly ramping up aboard the wounded Enterprise, requests for more information, questions concerning whether or not it would be acceptable to send gifts, and to where. Spock filters out the ones for himself, and transfers the rest to a data file that he can deliver to Jim in the morning.

A sudden urgent beep interrupts the stream of messages. Doctor McCoy’s face pops up on the screen. Spock immediately sees that something is very wrong, and he is out of his chair before McCoy even begins to speak.

“Spock,” the doctor says, “we’ve got a problem.”

“Is he –”

“He’s fine. But he’s getting messages, I don’t know how. That PADD I gave him was basically an expensive notebook, but he –”

“That is impossible. His direct communications were disabled.” The door latches behind him, and he strides down the darkened hall towards Kirk’s room.

“What’s impossible doesn’t matter. He knows, Spock. He knows about the debates and he’s _furious_.”

In the part of his mind given to exasperation, he thinks that “what’s impossible doesn’t matter” might as well be written in Kirk’s personality profile. Their grace period was never going to last forever. It is easy, Spock thinks, to know such things without accepting them. Perhaps they had taken this time for granted.

“I am on my way,” he says, the doors of the turbolift closing with a familiar _whoosh_ behind him. “You must calm him down.”

“What, you think I’m just letting him bulldoze his way outta here? He’s sedated. Wouldn’t listen to me, though, so you’re gonna have to talk him down when he wakes up.”

Spock hesitates, hand hovering above the lift controls. “Doctor, you are his closest friend. If you have failed, I do not see what possible hope there is for my success.”

“Spock, I do not have time for this shit. Just get here,” McCoy snaps, then ends the call.

He jabs the button for Jim’s floor, frowning at the device briefly before stowing it in his pocket. Spock is no stranger to the doctor’s ire, but it is usually deliberately aimed, and he is rarely driven to profanity. McCoy had said that Kirk was furious, but humans treat hyperbole very casually and Spock did not think Kirk would have reacted so strongly; he is smart enough to see that they are only protecting him. However, McCoy’s reaction is troubling. This is more serious than Spock had first thought. The doors open, and the ward is dark and quiet, weighted with the unique heaviness of many sleepers, but the nurses are whispering tersely at their station, eyes following him as he strides past. McCoy meets him halfway down the hall.

“What are we gonna tell him?” he says, quietly, and Spock does not have an answer.

 

* * *

 

When Jim awakens, it is early morning. The barest hints of sunrise are revealing the first shadows of the day, and Spock is sitting calmly beside him, and Jim’s mouth twists, and he looks away. Spock allows him to wake up, to shake off the last dregs of the sedation, to become angry if that is what he wants. But Jim stays quiet. This is not a fury that Spock understands. This is somehow worse.

“Captain,” he says at length, “you understand why we did not tell you.”

Finally, Kirk turns to look at him. “I do not,” he says, enunciating each word. Spock wonders if it is for emphasis or if he is still feeling the sedation; he wonders what McCoy had given him, what was safe enough to calm his fragile heart. “Why don’t you go ahead and explain it to me.”

Spock modifies the angle of his eyebrows by half a degree, suspicious. Kirk knows; he has to know. This is bait, and Spock has no patience for it. “The easiest answer is that we did not want you to die again.” He does not look away, but Jim does. “Your heart has stopped twice since Khan’s blood brought you back to life. The first time, it was because of a door slamming across the hallway. The second was for no reason at all. The doctor thinks that you gave up, very briefly. That you were tired. He says it is common. Resuscitations take a heavy toll.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jim says. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Your safety is more important than your damaged pride,” Spock snaps back.

“This isn’t about pride! You think I’m just desperate to be the hero? That I’d rather die than let someone else save the day? I could have helped. I could be helping now!” Jim barely gets the words out before bringing his hands up to cover his face. They are shaking. He takes a deep breath before taking them down again, hands curled into loose fists. “If it’s too late…if people die because I was lying here instead of standing up for them out there, I’m never going to forgive any of us.”

“We knew that,” Spock says calmly. “Your life was – and is – more important to us than your forgiveness.”

“My life doesn’t matter,” Jim says wearily, and Spock feels a moment of triumph: this statement, at least, can be properly answered.

“Of course it matters,” Spock says, and he hands Jim his PADD.

The messages are rolling in, more slowly now, but still coming: videos and pictures and words, bright and warm and loudly, unquestionably joyful. Spock had queued up the videos of the news spreading on the Enterprise first, and recognizes the tune of the shanty that was sung in the mess hall, of the bridge crew cheering as Sulu stepped down. Jim’s silence indicates disbelief.

“When you are ready, Captain, there is a folder full of information that Lieutenant Uhura has been collecting while you recovered. All the information you need about the past weeks is there.” Spock stands, tugging the wrinkles out of his uniform. He waits until his silence draws Jim’s gaze, because this is important, and Jim has to know. “We did not intend to lie to you any longer than was safe.”

At last, Jim allows himself a wry smile. It is not forgiveness, but it is not condemnation either. “Thanks, Spock,” he says, and turns back to the screen.

 

* * *

 

Eleven hours later, Spock returns to find Kirk standing.

He isn’t too surprised, because even from down the hall he could hear McCoy ramping up to a full fury as he threatened Kirk with sedation, and the flippant tone of Kirk’s answer. Out of respect for the other patients, Spock closes the door as he steps inside.

Kirk whirls, perhaps suspecting reinforcements for the doctor, and grins to see Spock instead.

“There he is!” Kirk beckons Spock closer, all bright mischief. “About time, we’re gonna be late.”

Spock knows better than to ask; he recognizes this mood. “It appears I must - briefly - relieve you of your charge, Doctor.”

Kirk throws an arm across his shoulders, leans against him, waves cheerfully. “Back before you know it, Bones. Wish us luck.”

“You get two hours,” McCoy says. “And you’d better spend most of it with your butt in a chair. I'm not afraid to come get you. Spock - ”

“Your stipulations are noted, Doctor.”

“You know I hate when you talk like that,” he snarls as they make their escape, and Kirk is clinging to Spock with breathless laughter, vibrant and alive and more fully himself than he’d been in almost three weeks. For now, Spock puts aside his concern and simply lets the moment be: the captain and his commander, off on some new mission, side by side.

“Alright,” says Kirk. “Take me to headquarters. It’s time I had a chat with our admiralty board.”

Spock nearly sighs. Of course this was never going to be simple. “Where does the doctor think I am taking you?”

“Cafeteria, I guess. I said I wanted real food. Which I still do, by the way, so can we stop somewhere? Let’s go somewhere with real potatoes.”

Spock sighs, shifts his grip as Kirk hitches his arm back around Spock’s shoulders, both of them pretending not to notice how unsteady Kirk is. “I'm willing to defy the doctor once, but to do so twice seems negligent.”

“He’s paranoid. I'm fine.”

“He's trying to keep you alive,” Spock reminds him.

Jim only smiles grimly. “Yeah. Well, I'm trying to keep all of us alive. I'm going with or without you, Spock, so choose, right now.”

It is an unfair instruction. He is not asking Spock to choose between loyalty to McCoy or to Kirk, he is asking Spock to choose between Kirk’s health and Kirk’s will. When Spock fixes him with a reproachful glare, he at least has the manners to look a little guilty about it.

“I will insist,” says Spock at length, “that you give your report sitting down. And I will reserve the right to halt the proceedings if you seem unwell.”

Kirk punches Spock's chest lightly. “You're a hell of a first officer, Spock.”

“I know. Do not make me regret it.”

 

* * *

 

The report Kirk gives the stunned admiralty is really more of a reprimand.

As far as they knew, Kirk has been quietly, unavoidably dying for the past weeks. To have him show up in general access hours, wearing his hospital attire but walking under his own power and full of righteous anger, is clearly not something they know how to deal with.

His presence clears the room. Whatever had been scheduled is superseded by James Kirk, back from the dead. Outside, there are reporters waiting along with his fans and his detractors, with more arriving by the minute; inside, there is only the long council table, the thirteen admirals, and James Kirk facing down all of them with Spock at his side.

As Spock had said he would, he acquires Jim a chair; as Spock had assumed he would, Jim does not use it. Neither does he pace about. He stands rigidly straight in what are essentially pyjamas, bringing the intensity of his gaze to each of the admirals in turn, as though hoping he can shame them into backing down through sheer force of will.

Individually, his chances would have been higher. Together like this, they are unified against him. This fight Jim has picked will not be an easy one.

He soldiers his way through the opening pleasantries: they ask after his health, and he offers a banal reassurance; they ask after his family, and he offers another. They implore him to sit, and he refuses. Spock, watching him, thinks that Jim might vibrate out of his skin with impatience. But he knows, too, that this is Jim setting the board. Watching his opponents, gauging their reactions. Looking for weakness. He hates that this is necessary, but Captain Kirk knows how to play.

His moment comes sooner than Spock was expecting. Kirk is still recovering, and does not have the energy for extended debate. He is also furious. Spock wonders which force he underestimated.

“I’m glad you asked about my crew. They’re doing alright. I’ll check in on them soon. But many of them communicated to me that they’re anxious about the direction of Starfleet, and I want to be sure I understand the situation before I discuss it with them any further.”

Admiral Han flattens their palm on the desk. “You have no need of discussing it, Captain. The direction of Starfleet is our concern, not yours, and you will be informed of our decision when everyone else is.”

“I know I’m out of line, here, but I have to ask: we’re not really considering armament, are we?”

“You have been ill, Captain Kirk. In light of your condition, we are willing to forgive much, but you overstep your boundaries.”

“Almost dying doesn’t get you very far these days, I guess. Fine, how about I start using my I-saved-the-world-twice credit? That should get me a few sentences, at least.”

“This is childish, Kirk, and insubordinate besides.”

“See, I think it’s more childish to hit back when someone hits you. You’re going to bring a knife to a galactic slapfight _that you started_ and it’s just gonna make someone else bring a gun. This has to end here. Escalation is not the answer.”

“See here, Kirk,” says Admiral Archer. “We’re not building weaponry so we can go pick fights. We just have to be realistic about what it takes to protect the planet.”

“Archer, we’ve always gotten along, so I hope you won’t take it personally when I call you a liar. Starfleet is on a war footing; it’s been on a war footing for years; that’s how we came across the Botany Bay in the first place. We were out looking for trouble, and we found it.”

“It’s a deterrent, Kirk. I know you know what that is.”

“It’s stupid, is what it is. You’re ignoring history, you’re ignoring -”

“That is quite enough, Captain -”

“- the consequences of your actions thus far, you’re -” his voice ramps steadily up in volume as he continues to speak over the objections of the admirals, “- about to turn Starfleet into a military organization just because you’re _scared_ and because you _can_. It’s the stupidest thing you could do, and it’s going to get people killed!” By the time he finishes delivering his rebuke, he is shouting, and his hand waves behind him; he’s tipping sideways, and Spock grabs his elbow, guiding him into the chair he’s ignored until now. His head rests at a strange angle in the silence that his words are stewing in, and Spock recognizes the posture as dizziness.

At last, Admiral Aiyadurai breaks her silence. She does not stand; she is already sitting perfectly straight, imperious and calm. Her hands are clasped on the table in front of her. “Are you quite through, Captain Kirk?”

“Your inability to look for alternatives is a grave professional embarrassment,” says Kirk in return, and his tone is colder than Spock has ever heard it. “I’m going to do my best to provide those alternatives. If I have to beg you to consider them, I will. But I’m hoping you get there on your own.”

“Indeed.” Aiyadurai’s mouth is a hard line. “I am revoking your media privileges, Captain. Our team will communicate the joyful news of your recovery to the press, and you will return to the care of your doctors. But you have reached the end of my forbearance. Any further disciplinary issues will result in severe consequences, do you understand me?”

“Oh, I think we understand each other just fine,” he says, and allows Spock to help him stand.

 

* * *

 

He does not rest even when they return to his hospital room. He storms, paces, flings his pillow across the room. Spock has read his file; he knows that an earlier version of this man would have taken this mood to a bar and picked a fight with it. As he is, Kirk eventually drops into a chair and puts his head in his hands.

“They’re actually gonna do it,” he says to the linoleum. “Shit, I never thought...I was so sure they’d back down. I didn’t think they’d actually _want_ this.”

Spock does not reply. Jim isn’t talking to him, not really.

They had missed their two-hour deadline. McCoy is likely on his way, likely furious. It doesn’t matter, not really.

“Okay,” Kirk says, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “What do we do now?”

“You have options,” Spock says. “The first is that you obey. You rest, you recover, you let the admiralty make their decision and then you abide by it.”

Jim smiles. “Well, we both know I’m in no danger of doing the sensible thing. What are the others?”

“The second is that you ignore your media ban. You speak out anyway, wherever you can, until disciplinary action impedes you. There is a high probability of temporary incarceration, which will remove you from any position of influence. They will vote for armament, and you will be disgraced. There is a chance, however, that your arguments against it will encourage protests. It may be all we can do.”

“Can we not appeal to the Federation council?”

Spock checks himself, adjusts the scope of the actions Kirk is, apparently, considering. “Yes,” he says, “but the Federation’s government has no power over Starfleet. They cannot help us.”

“Ain’t that a hell of a thing.” Jim looks away. “Let’s try anyway. Get them involved, at least. Make some noise. And for now, I guess we pursue option B, Mister Spock. Unless there’s an option C?”

Spock hesitates. In this mood, Kirk will probably take him seriously.

He asked, though, and Spock does not have it in him to refuse.

“A third option is that you leave Starfleet, go rogue, and do all you can to impede the enactment of the vote once it happens. The consequences of this course of action are severe, Captain.”

“Figured as much.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and rises, climbs back onto his bed. Spock recovers his thrown pillow, and Kirk accepts it with an apologetic smile. “Option B it is, then,” he says. “Wouldn’t get very far on my own in option C.”

“You would not be on your own,” Spock says immediately, because it’s true and it does not occur to him to hide such a simple, obvious fact. “Whatever you choose, Jim, you are my Captain. I will be with you.”

“Didn’t know Vulcans took so well to rebellion.”

“Then your knowledge of Vulcan history is shamefully lacking,” Spock says drily, and Jim grins up at him: bait taken. “Still, by modern Vulcan standards, I am very nearly an anarchist already.”

Jim fiddles with a corner of his blanket. “So if I take option C...”

“Whatever you choose,” Spock says again, ignoring the way his heartbeat accelerates to think of keeping such a promise, and Jim rewards him by tilting his head up, just enough to meet his eyes and quickly drop them.

“I thought so, Spock. But it’s nice to hear you say it.” He stretches and settles back. “Alright, better make your escape. McCoy’ll be here any minute.”

“I will stay, if you think it will help.”

“Nah, I can handle Bones. You guys just wind each other up, anyway.” He flaps a hand at the door, yawning, and they exchange farewells as Spock leaves him.

Perhaps he should have argued more strongly in favour of more prudent courses of action. Perhaps he should have declined to even place option C under consideration. He had been thinking too small for Kirk once again, and it had caught him off guard. Spock’s thoughts had run to personal disobedience; Kirk’s had run straight to the Federation’s government, a course of action that could easily spark a civil war.

Still, Spock had meant what he said. Whatever trouble Kirk was about to get himself in, Spock would never let him do it alone.

 

* * *

 

News of Captain Kirk’s miraculous recovery spreads quickly. Spock receives more interview requests the day after their trip to the admiralty than he has over the course of Kirk’s entire convalescence. He ignores them all. There is no benefit to rumour-mongering at this stage, and he has no desire to invite the ire of the admiralty.

He had returned to Kirk’s room in the morning to watch the official press release with Uhura and McCoy. They had immediately made it clear that Kirk’s recovery was to be respected, at which point McCoy had huffed and said, “That’s a real nice way of sayin’ they gave you a gag order.” Uhura had silently turned up the volume.

“Captain Kirk, who was given command of the Enterprise at the recommendation of its former Captain, was tasked with containing the damage of the experimental warship’s destruction. His failure to steer the ship away from the city is indicative of the difficulty of the task he was given, and not a lack of competence on his part. Still, his detractors cite his failure to sound a warning siren as the ships fell through the atmosphere, and a formal hearing waits upon his full recovery.”

McCoy snarls out the mute command, and the room falls silent. Jim scrubs a hand through his hair and puffs out his cheeks.

“That’s about what I was expecting,” he says ruefully.

“They can’t fault you for the sirens,” Uhura says. Her hands are clutching each other. “That was my job. I’ve been thinking about it for days. All I had to do was flip a switch, but I didn’t even think...it didn’t even cross my mind.”

“No one blames you, Nyota.”

“I blame me,” she says, voice stiff with practicality. “Every second of extra warning would have saved lives. It’s not a mistake I’ll make again, but you have to let me take responsibility for it.”

“If that’s what you want, but we might not get the chance. I’m the one they’re trying to nail to the cross, here.”

“Yeah, we’re not gonna let them do that,” McCoy says. “They got in a couple of low blows, and they’re not expecting you to hit back. You get one surprise round, kid. Make it a knockout.”

Spock turns a level stare on McCoy. “Is this really the time for sports metaphors, doctor?”

“This is the big leagues, Spock. Try and stay focused.”

“Is this really the time for _mixed_ sports metaphors?” Spock wonders aloud, and Jim laughs. It is a starburst sound, shivering with energy. Spock has heard this laugh before, and his body reacts the way it would to a klaxon, to a drumline. To thunder rolling in the distance.

“If it's not the time for metaphors, it's certainly not the time for bickering. I’m taking suggestions, here. How do we make our statement?”

“Oh,” says Uhura, “I have some ideas.”

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, they publish. Nothing goes through official channels; Kirk’s face never appears on the holovids or in the news. Still, he’s everywhere. They broadcast online, where Kirk advocates loudly against armament. He reminds the listener of Starfleet’s purpose, of peaceful exploration, of the Prime Directive. He plays up the excuses of the admiralty: he says that advanced weapons technology is why the Dreadnaught was made, and why it crashed. War is not why he enlisted, he says. He does not mention, of course, that he enlisted on a dare.

It doesn’t work. The admiralty slaps back, formally charges him with negligence, for the siren. Uhura, quietly, challenges the accusation, and they let it drag out. In the meantime, they issue Kirk a cease-and-desist notice.

He changes tactics. He directs viewers to online war history and theory courses that he had Chekov put together. He puts together hypotheticals, walks his listeners through them. Everything he gathers points in one direction: war, blood. The unraveling of everything they, as a species, have built together.

It doesn’t work. Starfleet security guards attempt to enter his room and are rebuffed by a furious Doctor McCoy, spitting Southern curses and wielding a hypo. They change locations; Uhura still has the code for Gaila’s flat, and they resolve to move again before long. Kirk is still a hero, sort of. The admiralty can’t publicly declare him an outlaw. Not yet.

He changes tactics. He proposes increased diplomatic presence on planets outside the Federation, and more active peace agreements with the Klingons. He and Uhura put together formal proposals which they formally and anonymously submit. They do everything right.

It doesn’t work. Their arguments are rational, but fear is not, and fear is what they are fighting. Spock drafts a letter to the Federation council, requesting assistance. He remarks on how horrifying it is to lose your home planet, on how easily it can happen, how fast. It is a tactic Kirk has not yet brought up, and Spock cannot fathom why.

The Federation agrees with his concerns, but cannot act. Starfleet is under its jurisdiction, yes, they agree - but given that Starfleet is both its martial force and the backbone of its intergalactic trade system, they cannot reasonably make demands of them and expect them to be followed. Really, the response seems to say, the reality is quite the opposite, and if Starfleet decides on armament, there isn’t a way they can say no.

Kirk writes back, pointing out that a diplomatic civilian government should not be bowing to the whims of its militia, and the response is almost identical. Sure, it says, of course it is not ideal, and you are right, in theory. But the reality is otherwise.

Kirk changes tactics. He publishes his correspondence with the Federation council. Starfleet has listed him as missing, and is openly seeking him out. They cite his exposure to radiation; they worry, publicly, that being so ill has made him delirious, and that he is not as recovered as he appears.

It doesn’t work. They are turning the tide. Protesters gather in front of Starfleet Academy; students begin electing for absenteeism in order to support them. The teachers who join them are placed on academic suspension.

Privately, Spock can see Kirk considering the breaking point. Option B has gotten them this far, but the admiralty show no signs of considering other courses of action. Spock doesn’t know if Kirk has broached the possibility of Option C to anyone else, but he knows that Kirk holds it in his mind, turning it over as he watches each new development, as he writes his next statement, as he compiles information to turn against the admirals. He can feel the presence of it, always, in the space between them, as though it is a weight hanging from a rope they’ve tied around both their necks.

The public activism continues, but it doesn’t work. Kirk changes tactics. He refocuses his efforts on Starfleet Command, threatening to tell the world about Khan and the circumstances in which he was unleashed. About how far Admiral Marcus had sunk before Khan murdered him. About what it took to neutralize him.

It doesn’t work, and it is the last insult they will tolerate. Two days before the vote, Starfleet Command abruptly clears Kirk’s name and orders him to the Enterprise to personally oversee repairs. It is, too obviously, a trap. But it is not the sort of trap one can step around.

So Kirk refuses, and they list him as a defector, and they strip him of his rank. They install their pocket reporters around the Enterprise’s dock to observe his disgrace, and they give him 24 hours to go and collect his things before his discharge renders his presence aboard all Federation vessels a criminal act.

They’ve grounded him.

Spock feels the rope pull tight.

 

* * *

 

It takes another six hours for Kirk to be sure they aren’t going to arrest him on sight. Given the circumstances of his dismissal, though, the admiralty doesn’t need to detain him. The shame of it is enough to render him harmless, they think.

It is fascinating, Spock thinks, that anyone could underestimate Kirk so badly. Shame is not an emotion he struggles with, and not one that will contain him.

So, for the first time since he died in it, Kirk returns to the Enterprise. There is not a lot of footage to disseminate from his return, and Spock knows that it is because Kirk probably looked more bored than repentant, more amused than ashamed, as he waded through the crowd.

When he does not return after three hours have gone by, Spock excuses himself from his paperwork and goes to find him. This is his first return to the Enterprise, as well. He ignores the cameras with all the icy reserve of his Vulcan heritage, and nobody stops him.

The computer informs him that the Captain is in his quarters. It does not say that he is packing his things, saying goodbye to the best home he’s ever known. It does not mention the camera crews standing outside the transport bay, ready to publicly interrogate the famous Captain, the disgraced hero, the man who has twice saved the planet from a terrorist bent on revenge. If Spock were prone to metaphor, he might imagine them as vultures. As it is, he allows his lip to twist in distaste as he walks the long, curving hallways of the Enterprise, seeking the man who has been dismissed for trying to save the planet yet again.  
  
Spock’s knowledge of the Captain’s personal effects is nominal at best, and as he walks he attempts to calculate the amount of time it would take Kirk to pack. He does not think that Kirk will rush. This may be the last time he sets foot upon the Enterprise, after all – and even though he knows to expect it, Spock lets his anger slip through, just a wisp of it. The injustice is too sour, too new, and too vast to be completely repressed. It twists through him only briefly before dissolving into nothing, but the shadow of it remains in the rigid line of his spine.  
  
He has only been to the Captain’s quarters three times in their acquaintance; despite Kirk’s extroversion and his approachable management strategy, he is given to strict privacy in his personal affairs. The yeoman who is in charge of command quarters, Rand, had always given the impression that Kirk’s room is sacred ground, and the interview process for the position is lengthy, involved, and classified under Captain’s orders. This behaviour is oddly in contrast to Spock’s experiences with the space. He had, in all three circumstances, been invited inside while the Captain dashed about, chatting in good spirits while he retrieved a command tunic or a last glass of water before he left to accompany Spock to their destination (once to the bridge, twice to conference room C, his preferred location for communications with the admiralty). The discrepancy is large enough that, were it anyone else, Spock would have puzzled over it. Since it is Captain Kirk, Spock hasn’t bothered. This is hardly the strangest facet of the man’s behaviour. However, his unusual openness had given Spock insight into the Captain’s inner life, and in each case his quarters had been nearly as obsessively tidy as Spock’s own.

It is good that Vulcans are not given to trepidation. Still, Spock takes a moment to order himself back to perfect neutrality while the turbolift closes around him and rockets him upwards. The idea of seeing those quarters in the disarray of packing is unsavoury, but for the next few minutes Kirk is still Spock’s commanding officer. It is his job to be there should his Captain require assistance.

And, in a way not tied to logic, he knows that Jim might need him for this. Jim has often needed him before.

He does not allow himself to hesitate before keying the intercom on the Captain’s door. Kirk’s reply is immediate.

“Yeah?”

“Requesting permission to enter, Captain.”

The intercom goes ominously silent. Spock resists the urge to shift his weight. He had honestly not expected that the Captain might deny him entry, however justified that course of action would be. Then the intercom crackles with a huff of laughter.

“Alright, come on in.”

The door pings its change in status, and what Spock finds within is not what he has been expecting.

As he had thought it might, the room reflects some of the violence of Kirk’s rare temper: drawers are pulled open and out, lying on the floor; irregular patterns of light on the walls of the head suggest a broken mirror; a duffel near the toppled wardrobe is half-full, and the sleeve of a golden shirt with three silver rings on the cuff dangles from the side; the space, usually warmly lit, is in a gloom.

This is all essentially what Spock has been expecting. The significant change, the one that makes everything else feel strange, is that the Captain is not alone.

James Kirk sits on an overturned desk in the middle of the room, dark nebulas of clothing and personal effects strewn around him. Leonard McCoy sits next to him in the desk chair, forearms resting across his thighs, holding a bottle of dark liquor by the neck. They are lit only by the light that spills in through the open door and the PADD that rests between them, balanced on their parallel knees.

Kirk is not looking at the screen. He is looking at Spock, and his expression is acute, calculating – unfamiliar. Then the door slides shut behind him, plunging the room back into darkness, and Kirk’s face slips out of view as Spock’s eyes adjust.

If it were anyone else, Spock would point out the unnecessary use of theatrics. Since it is not anyone else, Spock does not dare to comment. In the glow of the PADD, the Captain’s face is eerie, the lines at his eyes severe, the twist of his mouth from exhaustion and something stronger, something Spock knows well but cannot identify in any language.

“Can I help you, Mister Spock?”

“Captain – ”

“It’s Jim. I doubt you’ve forgotten that I was recently discharged from duty.”

“Captain,” he continues pointedly, ignoring Kirk’s exasperated sigh. “I intended to ascertain if I could be of any assistance to you.”

His eyebrow twitches upwards involuntarily as Kirk elbows McCoy, mouth twisted in a rueful grin. “See, Bones? Told you he’d be alright.”

The doctor’s eye roll is so pronounced it is almost audible. He takes a long drink straight from the bottle and says nothing. The exchange makes it clear that McCoy had argued against letting Spock into the room; the long pause before his admittance now makes sense.

Kirk leans forward, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “By your presence here, I take it you don’t agree with my discharge.”

Spock says nothing. Jim is building towards a point, and does not require his agreement.

Jim smiles, briefly, not really a smile at all. “So, tell me: if I leave, what happens to Starfleet?”

The obvious answer to the question is, realistically, very little. Kirk represents a physical body, and his absence would be quickly filled by another. But there has never been an officer like Kirk, and likely never would be again. What Starfleet would lose is not a body, but a mind so magnificent that a ship full of half-trained cadets had come together in perfect form to destroy a ship that could destroy a planet. Pike and Spock had made the logical choice in trying to rendezvous with the Laurentian fleet. Kirk had made the right one.

“Captain,” he begins, noticing that Jim does not correct him this time. “You are well aware that Starfleet was gutted by the initial attack on the Nerada. The ships that remain to us – and the Academy – have barely enough personnel to fill the necessary tasks to run them. Despite that fact, your crew has twice averted a planet-wide catastrophe. This is not a coincidence.”

Kirk has stopped smiling. He reaches for the bottle, and McCoy passes it to him readily. He tips the bottle sideways, watching the way the light of the PADD refracts in the liquid. Then he tips it back for a long drink. “You didn’t quite answer the question, you know.”

“I am aware. My answer is that without you, Starfleet loses its best chance at a desirable future.”

Kirk’s head tilts up in surprise. His fingers drum a discordant pattern on the side of the bottle, but he doesn’t drink again.

“I hate it when you’re right.” McCoy leans forward to snatch the bottle back, but Kirk holds it just out of reach. Spock is glad not to be on the receiving end of the resultant glare, but Jim barely seems to notice. “Listen here, kid,” McCoy snarls. “The hobgoblin’s on board, even if he doesn’t even know it yet. Quit with the dramatics.”

“My presence aboard the ship should, at this point, be obvious.”

“Dammit, man, you know what I mean, and I _know_ you know it.”

Spock opens his mouth to suggest that the doctor should imbibe his alcohol more responsibly, but Jim slips the PADD into McCoy’s lap and stands, running a hand harshly over his face. Spock and McCoy drop their grievance to watch him, pulled inexorably into his gravity, the star their lives had come to orbit around. Jim sighs, letting his shoulders slump. He has not put down the liquor bottle, and he jams the thumb of the hand holding the bottle into the corner of his eye, an action he typically performs when trying to banish a headache.

“Spock. We’re going to mutiny.”

The words hit Spock viscerally, delivering a sensation not far removed from his lungs crawling up into his throat. Constricted blood vessels are a symptom of acute stress response, he thinks numbly. He is experiencing shock. His heart has begun to beat so hard and fast that he can hear his blood as it travels through his ears.

The room, in contrast, is completely silent.

“Captain, what you are suggesting – ”

“I know, Spock.”

“This is more than mutiny. By many definitions, it is also treason.”

“Technically, I think it’s a coup.”

“And you assume I will just assist you in this – ”

“Well, you haven’t stopped calling me Captain yet.”

That stops him cold.

Jim offers him the bottle. There is no label on it. “We’ve gone past negotiations. They’re signing arms treaties tomorrow. If we don’t move, we lose Starfleet forever. We don’t move, it means we’re letting them paint a target on our whole planet.” His face softens. “You said that Earth was the only home you had left. Aren’t you going to help me protect it?”

Spock considers the Captain very carefully. Kirk does not squirm under his scrutiny, and he does not bother to hide the desperation in his face. In a very small part of his mind, Spock recognizes that he is being charmed and chooses to ignore it.

This is the reason he chose to stay with Kirk, after all – because against all logic, and against doing what is easy, Kirk chooses time and again to do what is right.

Spock reaches out and takes the bottle. This is not a custom he pretends to understand, despite the number of cultures that practice it: the sharing of a beverage to cement alliances. He passes the bottle to McCoy, who takes it in stunned silence.

“How do you propose to avoid the interference of the Laurentian fleet, Captain?”

Jim gives him an honest smile for the first time in this conversation. In answer, he snatches the PADD off the doctor’s lap, and his fingers tap efficiently on the screen. The light it gives off shifts to a distinctly green hue as a familiar face pops up.

“Thanks for waiting, Gaila,” he says, and the change in his countenance is startling. Spock has noticed before that Jim has the ability to wear the mantle of his captaincy even when not wearing the shirt or sitting in the chair; it is an ability more than one Captain in the fleet lacks. He had determined that the difference is conviction. Kirk had never learned to doubt himself, not properly. He inspires confidence, and he is performing that trick now.

The fleet’s only Orion had survived the battle above Vulcan by sheer luck; her ship had been damaged in such a way that the escape pods were still viable, and had been in such a position that attempting to land on Vulcan had been impossible. The small ships had hidden among the wreckage, making their escape during the planet’s implosion. “Captain,” she says crisply, “everything is in order. My crew is ready to seize command of the Laurentian flagship at your signal.”

“Don’t compromise your safety. If there’s a chance you can’t pull it off, surrender, and I’ll find a way to help you when I can. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.” She hesitates, lifting her chin defiantly. “You understand why I’ve agreed to this. You know how my people are ruled, and what they’ve suffered. Starfleet has always been about hope, and I intend to see that it stays that way. We’re with you, sir. Ready when you are.”

“I’ll be in touch with you shortly. Kirk out.” The screen goes dark. “Computer, lights at forty percent.” As the room gradually lights up, the rings under Kirk’s eyes become apparent. He is exhausted, enough to let it show. “Bones, how much time do we have?”

The doctor scratches his head irritably. “Press release is at ten. I told you, it’s not enough time.”

“We’ll make do. You’re going to stay here. Coordinate with Chekov and Sulu to inform the crew and give them the chance to opt out. Use the conference rooms and shut down onboard comms, just in case. If anyone seems unsure, put them on the shuttles. Sulu will only need a skeleton crew once this gets going and we can’t take the risk of being exposed.”

McCoy corks the bottle and sets it on the floor. “You know, when I said I would help you however I could, I never expected you to call me on it.”

Kirk claps him on the shoulder as McCoy walks past him. “I’m gonna need your help a lot more before this is done, Bones. Keep me updated.” He turns before McCoy is even out of the room, striding to the closet where his dress uniform is hanging. “Spock, you’re with me. We have to decide which of the admirals are going to be trouble. Obviously, we want to limit the number of people we kidnap. If they’re going to stay quiet, they can stay planetside.”

Spock nods as Kirk steps into the head to change. He leaves the door open, which Spock understands as a sign to continue the conversation. “It is highly probable that there are some among them who will support your position, if not your methodology. However, we will need public support as well. As you are no longer technically bound by Starfleet command protocols, you are well within your rights to make a statement to the media if you choose.”

“Good.” There is a faint tinkling sound as Kirk presumably brushes the shattered pieces of mirror out of his way. “We can’t say anything about the coup until the crew have been informed and have a chance to pick sides. Still, we should let people know there’s trouble coming.”

“You are more qualified to deliver that message than I am, Captain. What would you have me do?”

Kirk emerges from the head in his dress greys, hat tucked under his arm. “I need you to get into Marcus’ personal messaging and find us a starting point.” He goes straight for the half-full duffel that holds his gold command tunic and begins packing his personal effects. “We’ll have to remove anyone he has a history with. But if anyone hated his policies, well…maybe they’ll like our idea more.”

“He would likely have used a private server. I will need access to his office.”

“We’ll go there next. But Spock…” Kirk hefts the duffel onto his shoulder, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “You understand what this means, right? There won’t be another chance to back out. Once we take the admiralty hostage, it’s a coup. And I want to be really clear, here – the people we take on board are going to be hostages. I’d rather see the whole thing fail than see anyone hurt, but it’s going to get messy.”

“There have been several bloodless coups in human history. I believe that we can duplicate those results. However, Captain, I must remind you that if we fail, war is the most likely outcome. First civil, then galactic.” He quirks an eyebrow, an admonishment. Kirk should not need to be reminded of this. “Failure will mean catastrophe. It is not an option.”

The captain shifts his bag on his shoulder and is quiet for a long moment. It occurs to Spock that Kirk may have been giving himself an out: if he had agreed to failure being preferable to individual harm, Kirk may have taken it as permission to back down from the entire endeavour.

He is asking permission to stop. Kirk has always been disobedient, but never treasonous. What they do next will change him forever, and he is afraid.

“Good thing I don’t believe in no-win scenarios, then,” Kirk says quietly, with a smile that is dangerously close to being self-deprecating. Spock remembers, with sharp vibrancy, that Kirk had said much the same thing when they first spoke, and he recognizes that Kirk is feeling volatile. He is familiar with the angles that settle on the Captain’s face when he is preparing to become terrible, when he is driven to a corner. But then he lets it go, as Spock had seen him do many times before, and squares his shoulders, and lifts his head, and the mantle of command settles back upon him as though it had never been set down. Even in this dim light, Kirk is striking, his eyes quick and bright and burning as he strides from the room. It is not the first time the Captain has reminded Spock of galaxies. He is committed, and with a task ahead of him Kirk is himself again: a child, a leader, and a captain whose force of will is about to drive hundreds of people to an act of war.

**Author's Note:**

> So alright cool here we go here we GO we're about to get into the good shit kids buckle up. I thrive on praise so if you want another chapter you can bribe me with kind words in the comments (this comes with the added benefit of me being a little in love with you forever) or over on tumblr (I don't know how to hyperlink but I'm mumblefox there too)! I would really love to hear from you!


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